That may be the official time period but many people in the Southwest anxiously watch another indicator, the dew point. If the dew point is 55 degrees or higher for three consecutive days, the potential for actual precipitation increases greatly. Though it is still not a guarantee that southern Arizona will get thunderstorms or much needed rain. Considering that the monsoon season usually delivers half of our annual rainfall you can see why it is eagerly anticipated. Last year’s monsoon season was pitiful and everyone is hoping that this year’s will be much better.

It is a bit of a bummer to leave Tucson this time of year because when the rain does roll in it is an awesome sight. The storms can be incredibly powerful filling the sky with deep, booming thunder, flashes of bright lightning and often dropping huge raindrops or even hail. Of course, the storms can be dangerous, as long-dry waterways overflow and high winds blow through. And let’s not leave out lightning’s ability to do harm, just this past week a man was killed by a lightning strike in Tucson. On average, 45 people a year are killed by lightning in the U.S. with most of the fatalities occurring during July and August.

Our journey this summer started off on a Friday evening. We chose the late departure so we could wrap up all the last minute items on our to-do list and so we could avoid driving during the hottest part of the day. Since it was shortly after the Summer Solstice we had plenty of light to see us well into New Mexico. We were headed somewhere higher and cooler: Santa Fe, at over 7,000 feet. It was definitely a relief to step outside into the cool air the next day.

It was not a new city to either of us but since our previous visits had been brief we were looking forward to some more exploring. Our home for the week was an RV park among oak, juniper, and pinyon in the rolling hills just outside of town. The location of the park was ideal for us for not only had it been used in the filming of Every Which Way but Loose but it was right along the Santa Fe Trail.

The Trail was a route that led from the western edge of the United States to the northern limit of New Spain (later Mexico). Until 1821, in an attempt to control their domain the government of New Spain had forbidden trade with any foreign powers, including the U.S. That was a pivotal year, for not only had Mexico won its independence from Spain but an indebted American hauled goods from his home in Missouri across 900 miles of prairie to Santa Fe. It was the gamble of man who had nothing left to lose, back home he was facing jail time for defaulting on a $321 loan, while in Santa Fe he could have been jailed by the Spanish governor.

It took William Becknell and his pack animals several months to reach Santa Fe by which time the change in government and law was complete. When he arrived in November, instead of being arrested, Becknell was mobbed by a throng of eager customers. He sold his supplies for ten times their value and headed back to Missouri with $250,000 worth of silver and gold. Becknell was savvy enough to determine that a wagon loaded with goods could also make the trip. Becknell’s return to Missouri caused a sensation and soon many ambitious Americans were preparing their own wagons for the trip to Santa Fe.

The following Spring wagon after wagon headed west on the Trail. The journey was fraught with dangers; Native Americans were known to attack, though nature was by far more challenging. The wagons encountered wind, rain, mud, dust, lack of forage for their livestock, lack of firewood, and worst of all, lack of water. Even the monotony of the plains posed a threat as men (and they were mostly men) would occasionally fall asleep on the wagon tongues, slip off and be run over by the fully-loaded wagon. The trip was worth it, though, since the supply starved communities of northern Mexico were desperate for goods, primarily cloth.

Though the trail split into two routes near the middle, the destination was the same, Santa Fe. Traffic on the trail soon went both ways with Mexican traders delivering sought after items to the United States where they were shipped east with some goods making it all the way to Europe. Of course, the potential of the Trail soon attracted the attention of large freighting companies and the U.S government, which established a series of outposts to provide protection for the wagon trains. For almost 60 years commercial trade flourished on the route leading to international trade and for some, great wealth.

The Trail’s demise came with the toot, toot of a train whistle. In 1880 the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe Railway reached northern New Mexico Territory and a trip that used to take three or more months had been reduced to two days. Estimates place the value of total trade conducted over the Trail at close to $100 million dollars (in today’s money)!

But wait, I skipped a few years of Santa Fe’s history. The area that is now northern New Mexico has been inhabited for over 12,000 years. Evidence of a more settled population near present day Santa Fe shows up in villages that were first occupied around 1050 A.D. Coronado traveled through the region in 1540 and much to the bewilderment of the indigenous peoples he proclaimed all the land for the king of Spain. The Natives, who had purposely lied to Coronado about the location of his much sought after Seven Cities of Cibola in an effort to be rid of him, were no doubt thrilled when the explorer left in disgust two years later.

The northern edge of New Spain was neglected until 1598 when Don Juan de Oñate traveled up with some settlers and established San Juan de los Caballeros. The small colony served as the capital of the province until 1610 when the capital was moved to a tiny new town called La Villa Real de la Santa Fé de San Francisco de Asís (the Royal Town of the Holy Faith of Saint Francis of Assisi). Thankfully through time the name was shortened to just Santa Fe.

When the town was laid out by the province’s third governor in 1608 it followed “The Laws of the Indies” which required a central plaza bounded on one side by the seat of government (Palace of the Governors) and on another by a Catholic church. Much of the work to build and maintain the town and provide for the settlers was shouldered by native Pueblo peoples who were coerced or forced into labor. Finally in 1680, the Puebloans had had enough. Through an amazing network of runners and informants the geographically and culturally separate Pueblos rose up on the same day and with brutal force drove the Spanish from their ancestral homelands.

It must have been a sweet victory, though it was short lived. Twelve years later Don Diego Vargas led another group of settlers up the Camino Real de Tierra Adentro to reclaim the capital of Santa Fe. Though it was just a small, poor, farming town Santa Fe remained the capital through a succession of countries, from Spain to Mexico to the United States (and a brief stint under the Confederate States of America). Today, government is the leading element in Santa Fe’s economy, followed closely by tourism.

Tourism, I would argue, is responsible for the way the town looks today. The earth-toned, flat-topped adobe buildings with large wood vigas that early artists, authors, and visitors had shared with the world made an indelible image. One that in the early 1900s the town was in danger of losing as new construction sprang up. In 1912 a building code was enacted requiring a unified style called Spanish Pueblo Revival in the historic district. Later the code was modified to include the Spanish Territorial style. Of course, just because it looks like adobe doesn’t mean it is. Most of the new construction and remodeling projects are just stuccoed to resemble adobe, in a style Santa Feans call faux-dobe.

This is one of the reasons that some people actually call it Santa Fake—I did not make that up, honest. Another factoid that surprised us is that the Atchison, Topeka and Santa Fe railway never actually came to Santa Fe! The rail company decided that the town was too difficult to reach so they routed the track through Albuquerque instead (apparently, it was too late to change the name of the company). Imagine the surprise of passengers when they discovered they had to depart at the small station of Lamy and catch a stage or car to reach the namesake destination.

In 2003 we rode on the Southwest Chief, an Amtrak train that uses what is now known as the Burlington Northern and Santa Fe Railway. Lance remembers wondering about the tiny Lamy station, while I just remember the amazing scenery—it was beautiful. Which was what we focused on during this visit, most of our time was spent out on the hiking trails in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains that tower over town. Oh sure, we did some of the typical tourist stuff: we visited the Loretto Chapel, the Palace of the Governors, the Cathedral Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi, we wandered the Plaza and we dined on famous New Mexican chilies. It was while enjoying the latter that we overheard the following sentiment twice, “You’re in Santa Fe. Shut up and try it, you’ll like it.”

Which I think sums it up quite nicely.

Photos: View our photographs from Santa Fe, NM.

Dates: We stayed in Santa Fe, NM from 06/26/10 to 07/03/10.

About mid-day on a Sunday we left on our RV’s last road trip of the year—we were heading home. Odd word, home. It seems to have several different levels of meaning. In the most concrete sense (a house, apartment, or other shelter that is the usual residence of a person, family, or household) our home was wherever we parked our RV. Even in the emotional sense our RV certainly fits the meaning of home: “the place in which one’s domestic affections are centered” or “any place of residence or refuge.” Those definitions may be technically correct but during these past few years of travel we have discovered that home isn’t just the building in which we live.

Of the definitions, this one comes closest to what we think of as home: “an environment offering security and happiness.” Though it too falls short. We had inklings of this before we hit the road but it was difficult for us to put it into words. Now we know that home is far more than a physical structure it is also a feeling, a sense of belonging. Part of what makes a person feel that they belong are relationships—not only with friends and family, but everyday interactions with neighbors, people at the park, or at the library. Personal experiences with a place (and their subsequent memories) also figure in the home equation for us.

So when we returned to our property in Tucson that Sunday afternoon we truly felt we were coming home. We both have strong ties to the Old Pueblo, not only through a myriad of relationships but through years of associated memories.

As soon as we had the RV all hooked up we eagerly toured our property to check on it. Happily things were in great shape, nothing much had changed during our three month absence. There weren’t even very many weeds since Tucson suffered through one of its worst monsoon seasons in years. The National Weather Service considers most of Arizona to be in a “Severe Drought” with the Tucson area a good three inches behind in annual rainfall. A few inches may not sound like much to those of you in wetter climes, but when you only get roughly ten inches a year missing three inches is a huge deal.

Except for the sudden fluke of a cold winter-like storm that swept through in the middle of the month October’s weather was warm and sunny. At times perhaps a bit too warm? 99 degrees in October for crying out loud! Shouldn’t complain though—it did encourage us to get outside and work on the yard as well as tackle the much needed second coat of paint on the trim and other projects. The local home improvement stores love to see us!

Of course, it wasn’t all work and no play; we did set aside time to spend catching up with friends and family. As usual there was plenty to talk about—it’s amazing how much can change in a person’s life in a few months. I was also fortunate enough to score a seat at the Questing Workshop that was held in Tucson at the end of the month. For me Questing is one of those things that I wish I had known about sooner, but better late than never! A busy month, a good month—it’s great to be back home.

Photos: View our photographs for this post: So Nice to Be Home.

We knew we wouldn’t be able to drive all the way to Tucson in such a short period of time so we pored over the map of New Mexico. Always looking for something new to discover we skipped over places where we’d stayed before. That put us south of Socorro and north of Las Cruces. Finally we decided to check out Elephant Butte, a place we had driven by many times before. Though fossilized mammoths and mastodons have been uncovered in the area the name comes from a distinctive landform; a large volcanic core—now an island in the lake—that purportedly resembles an elephant. I dunno, we stared at the misshapen rock but couldn’t find the elephant. Maybe we needed a different angle.

There are three entities that share the name Elephant Butte: a tiny community, the state’s biggest lake, and New Mexico’s largest state park. Of the three we were most familiar with the lake since it had piqued our interest when we skirted it on I-25 on road trips past. The town, the lake and the state park all owe their existence to the Elephant Butte Dam that impounded the Rio Grande in 1915. The embankment was authorized in 1905 as part of the Rio Grande Project (a water compact between three U.S. states, Colorado, New Mexico, and Texas, and Mexico).

The Project, originally designed to control flooding and provide water for irrigation, now also generates power through the hydroelectric plant at Elephant Butte. Though all water projects in the arid southwest have downsides, one positive effect of the dam was the creation of a recreation and tourism industry in the area. Simply put, the town and state park wouldn’t exist without the lake. Though we aren’t into fishing or water sports the sparkling water of the lake enticed us to stay and play.

By play I mean we caught up on work, did laundry, cleaned, shopped, and prepared for our return to our recently purchased home in Tucson. Actually, for most of our visit the weather encouraged us to stay in and tend to our obligations—it was extremely windy. We did manage a few exploratory trips mainly to check out sights in and near Truth or Consequences, Elephant Butte’s bigger and older sister.

If you’ve ever heard of T or C it’s probably because it is the only city in the country named after a radio show. It was the result of a publicity stunt by a popular quiz show called Truth or Consequences. In 1950 the host, Ralph Edwards, announced a challenge to the nation: the program would air from the first town that renamed itself. I can’t imagine it working today but back then the residents of Hot Springs voted to change the name of their town. As the Geronimo Springs Museum proudly recounts, what was slated to be a one time event turned into an annual one. Edwards continued to broadcast the show from T or C once a year, even after the show made the leap to TV.

Other than its zany name-changing stunt T or C’s other claim to fame was the inspiration of its previous name, hot springs. There are several natural hot springs in the town with a combined flow of ninety-nine liters per second (more than double the flow of the famous springs in Hot Springs, Arkansas). As with other geothermally heated waters across the continent the springs had long been visited by those who believed in the restorative powers of the springs.

In the center of what is now a city park is a jumble of boulders known locally as Apache Rocks. Bands of Apaches from all over the Southwest would trek to the hot springs to soak in the healing waters. The boulders bear silent witness to these visitations; there are deep impressions ground into the rock, evidence of food preparation, and smoke stains coating the roof of a small overhang from their cooking fires. What we were most surprised to learn is that these pilgrimages by the Apaches continued into the 1940s!

These days you don’t have to camp out in the park in order to soak in T or C’s springs (in fact, they discourage that). Of the forty or so spas that existed in town before WWII roughly eight still offer soaking opportunities. Though it sounded awfully tempting we decided not to test the waters. That week we preferred quiet walks along the Rio Grande (which I believe is quite a misnomer since the river is truly not grand or large). It was a welcome change as we shifted gears from our RV travels of the summer to planning to pick up where we left off on house work. Painting? Yard work? We’re looking forward to it!

Photos: View our photos from Elephant Butte, New Mexico.

Dates: We stayed in Elephant Butte, New Mexico from 09/27/09 to 10/02/09.

Two events during the winter of 1811-12 disrupted life in the quiet river town. The first was a bit of a geologic rarity, an intraplate earthquake. Dubbed the New Madrid Earthquake, it was actually a series of large tremblors that shook the entire Mississippi River Valley. Rated at magnitude 8 these quakes and their aftershocks devastated the region: whole islands disappeared, huge holes appeared in the earth, rivers were re-aligned, and the roiling, churning water of the Mississippi seemed to run backwards. Attesting to the strength of these quakes, church bells rang in Boston and chimneys fell down in Maine. Thankfully, the area was sparsely populated; though boats capsized, entire towns were destroyed, and a number of people were killed, there wasn’t a catastrophic loss of life.

The other earth-shattering event was the arrival of the first steamboat on the Mississippi River. The New Orleans left Pittsburgh in September of 1811 and traveled down the Ohio River to its confluence with the Mighty Miss. Somehow the boat successfully navigated storms, snags, floods, low water, and the New Madrid earthquakes. Against all odds the New Orleans arrived safely in its namesake city in January of 1812. Not surprisingly, the passengers were relieved to have survived their nightmarish journey. Though it would be five years before the first steamboat docked in St. Louis, the age of the steamboat had begun and no town along the river would ever be the same.

During the 1820s the population of St. Louis and the surrounding area doubled as steamboats made travel easier for Americans. People eager for a new beginning flooded into the territory. In 1821 Missouri was finally admitted to the Union as a state. It had been a contentious struggle for Missouri to reach statehood since the question of slavery had divided the country into free states and slaveholding states. The admission of one more state would upset the precarious balance, so under the Missouri Compromise Missouri was admitted as a slave state while Maine entered as a free state. The legal maneuvering did little to resolve the question of slavery, which continued to simmer as a divisive issue.

In 1826 the Jefferson Barracks Military Post was established south of St. Louis to provide protection for the inhabitants of the new state. At the time life at the military outpost was relatively uneventful. Though now of historical relevance, it was merely a small matter of business when a surgeon at the outpost, a Major John Emerson, purchased a slave by the name of Dred Scott in 1832.

St. Louis continued to thrive as Americans who continued to flood west were joined in the 1840s and 50s by German and Irish immigrants. Many of these foreign-born residents were highly skilled craftsmen, notably in the trades of beer brewing and brick-making. Some settled in St. Louis fulfilling the needs of the rapidly growing city: bricks to build houses for the people, beer to quench their thirst. The location of St. Louis along the Mississippi River meant easy access to beer’s most crucial ingredients, grain and water. One of those German brewers was Eberhard Anheuser (a name you might recognize) who eventually took over ownership of the Bavarian Brewery Company.

In 1843 Jefferson Barracks welcomed a new group of recruits, including an undistinguished young West Point graduate by the name of Ulysses S. Grant. Grant broke up the monotony of his days at the post with visits to the family home of a West Point friend. Though Grant had been raised in an abolitionist family he enjoyed spending time at White Haven, the Dent family plantation. Situated in the Little Dixie area of Missouri, the plantation’s holdings consisted of close to a thousand acres and over thirty slaves; Colonel Dent considered himself a southern gentleman. In 1844 the frequency of Grant’s visits increased after he met Colonel Dent’s daughter, Julia.

1844 was a big year in St. Louis and other riverside communities as the Missouri and Upper Mississippi Rivers poured over their banks. By volume the Great Flood of 1844 was the largest deluge on record with 1,300,000 cubic feet per second flowing past St. Louis. Citizens upset by the devastation wrought by the raging water demanded that the incorrigible Mississippi be tamed; it was the first such request, but not the last.

By 1846 St. Louis residents had returned to their daily lives when two slaves, Dred Scott and his wife Harriet, sued for their freedom at what is now known as the Old St. Louis County Courthouse. The lawsuit, which eventually took over eleven years to resolve, disrupted lives and pitted neighbor against neighbor. Though Missouri had been admitted as a slave state many of the new immigrant residents of St. Louis were abolitionists. The premise of the case was that since his owner, John Emerson, had moved Dred (and later his wife Harriet) from a slave state to a free state they were entitled to their freedom. Their suit had legal precedence as slaves had been freed on the same basis in other states. Unfortunately, the Scotts’ case was murkier since they didn’t file their suit in a free state.

During the time period that the Scott lawsuit was winding its way through the courts Grant married Julia at White Haven. Their wedding received the blessing of neither set of parents; Grant’s folks were aghast that he had married into a slave owning family and Julia’s father doubted Grant’s ability to earn a living. Somehow the couple found common ground in their relationship, even as family, friends, and the nation were increasingly at odds with each other over the slavery issue.

In 1850 after numerous delays the lawsuit was decided. At the courthouse where slaves had once been sold on the front steps, the Scott family was declared free. The widow Emerson, stunned by such a huge loss of “personal property,” appealed the court’s decision. Two years later the Missouri Supreme Court (which also heard cases in the Old Courthouse) overturned the lower court’s decision. In 1853 Scott appealed to the federal court. I think it safe to presume that slaveholding families, such as the Dent’s, kept a close eye on the Scott case. Slaves were quite valuable, at that time an able-bodied male could fetch over $1,000.

By the 1850s St. Louis had grown into the eighth largest city in the country and the torrent of incoming settlers showed no sign of stopping. In 1854 Grant began farming at White Haven. In an effort to provide for his young family he worked out in the fields with the Dent family slaves (much to the horror of neighbors). Meanwhile, the Scott case worked its way up to the United States Supreme Court. The court’s decision in 1857 rocked the nation with the ruling that slaves were personal property, that imported Africans and their descendants were not—and could never be—citizens, and therefore the Constitution did not apply to them and further, that as non-citizens, they had no access to the court system. The decision polarized the nation.

Though the Scott family was finally emancipated by Dred’s original owner on May 26, 1857 it did little to calm the country down. Sadly, Dred’s hard won freedom was short-lived as he succumbed to tuberculosis on November 7, 1858. 1858 was the same year that Grant acquired his first and only slave. The slave is thought to be a gift from his father-in-law, as Grant had hardly two nickels to his name. The next year, after Grant moved his family to Illinois (a free state), he set the slave free. There is evidence that Grant had desired to free his slave earlier but Missouri law required the posting of a substantial bond that Grant could ill afford. Though Grant’s in-laws were slave owners at the outbreak of the Civil War his decision was easy; the Union had to be preserved. The South had no legal right to secede.

The nation, Missouri, St. Louis, and the Dent family were all divided in their loyalties, as were many others during the War Between the States. Towns along the river changed dramatically. For the first time in fifty years the bustling waterfront of St. Louis was empty as few steamboats ventured up the contested waters of the Mississippi. Though much subdued, life carried on for residents. In 1861 the daughters of Eberhard Anheuser, the successful brewery owner, Lilly and Anna married the Busch brothers, Adolphus and Ulrich in a double ceremony.

After the war ended in 1865 the reunited country did not have time to celebrate. Like other cities across the country St. Louis had to restart commerce and replant fields (this time without slaves). Though many wounds took generations to heal St. Louis rebounded with a flourish. Railroads took the place of steamboats, reducing travel time and expanding access throughout the nation. As goods and people flowed across the country, a new age of interstate commerce was embraced. In 1876 Adolphus Busch, a partner at his father-in-law’s brewery, introduced a new lager crafted to suit the taste of all Americans. As Budweiser poured across the country it soon became a national favorite. A few years later the brewery changed names one last time, and Anheuser-Busch was born.

In 1882 another flood inundated the Mississippi River Valley, though lucky for the residents of St. Louis they escaped the worst of the damage. Unlike previous floods this one, “The Chocolate Tide” as Mark Twain called it, wreaked havoc on a large population. In an area that had not yet fully recovered from the aftermath of the war, roughly 100,000 people were left homeless. Mark Twain was on the river during the deluge, aboard a relief boat as a journalist for the Times-Democrat. His reports of the devastation are sobering, the suffering of the people in the inundated region is hard to fathom. On a lighter note, Twain recounted a conversation he had while in St. Louis. “What is a person to do here when he wants a drink of water? Drink this slush?” “Can’t you drink it?” “I could if I had some water to wash it with.” Even in non-flood times the water of the Mississippi was filled with silt and sediment leading some to charmingly describe it as “too thin to plow, and too thick to drink.”

By the turn of the century St. Louis had grown into the fourth largest city in the nation. It was fitting that the metropolis hosted the 1904 World’s Fair. Officially titled the Louisiana Purchase Exposition the fair sprawled across Forest Park and spilled over onto neighboring land. Over 1,500 buildings were built to house the representatives and cultural and technological exhibits of sixty-three participating nations. As one of the most successful fairs the Saint Louis World’s Fair attracted a torrent of visitors (over 19 million) during its seven-month run.

Continuing the cycle the next big event in the story of St. Louis was yep, you guessed it another flood. This time the raging waters encountered a large population dwelling in lowland areas thought to be protected by levees. Over 27,000 square miles were under thirty feet of water for almost eight months, 246 people died and 700,000 people were left homeless. The Great Mississippi Flood of 1927 still rates as the most destructive deluge in U.S. history.

1927 ushered in a new type of flood to St. Louis, this one on U.S. Highway 66. More familiarly known as Route 66 it was one of the first U.S. Highways in the country. The road connected Chicago to Los Angeles and soon became a heavily traveled thoroughfare. It ran right through downtown St. Louis until the late 1930s when a bypass route crossed the Mississippi River via the Chain of Rocks Bridge north of town. It was a precursor of the tide of automobile traffic to come, as four interstates now pass through the area (I-44, I-55, I-64, and I-70). Various kinds of floods have altered the landscape of St. Louis over the centuries—no doubt they will continue to do so in the future.

Photos: Explore our photographs for St Louis, Missouri.

Dates: We stayed in St Louis, Missouri from 09/13/09 to 09/26/09.

I spent an entire morning wandering through the museum and exploring the grounds. The exhibits answered many of my questions, including my main one, “Why here?” The answer is—like they say in real estate—location, location, location. Rivers were the highways of the time and Cahokia was near the confluence of the Mississippi, Missouri, and Illinois rivers. These rivers and others in the network provided access to the Gulf Coast, the Great Lakes, and the East Coast. Then there is the fact that the soil—the fertile American Bottom, a rich floodplain—was well-suited for the amount of agriculture needed to sustain a large population. Clearly, the placement of St. Louis was not random, the location has been popular with humans for thousands of years.

The first evidence of human habitation are artifacts that date all the way back to the last ice age, about 10,000 years ago. The artifacts were few and far between leaving scientists to presume that the earliest people merely traveled through the area. For several thousand years the archaeological record shows only small encampments scattered along the rivers, but the sporadic pattern changed markedly around 1,400 years ago. During the Late Woodland period more permanent habitations began to appear and by the start of the Early Mississippian, around 1000 CE, the settlements had grown in size.

During the roughly two-hundred-year span of the Early Mississippian the population gradually increased, as did the role of agriculture, and earthen mounds emerged as a common feature. Cahokia was founded during this time as an urban center with a strong centralized authority. By 1250 CE Cahokia had morphed into a massive city covering over 4,000 acres (roughly six square miles). At the heart of it all was a palisaded compound dominated by the largest prehistoric man-made structure north of Mexico. At 100 feet tall, with a base that covered fourteen acres, Monk’s Mound was the largest in North America. More correctly I should say it is the largest as it is still standing.

It was an impressive undertaking, especially when you consider that it was all built by hand. Until the arrival of the Spanish in the 1500s the indigenous cultures of North America did not have the assistance of beasts of burden or the wheel. It is estimated that over 22 million cubic feet of earth was moved to build Monk’s Mound. Dirt and clay was carried to the site by the basketful; careful excavations have even identified individual basket loads. Researchers estimate that it took between fourteen and fifteen million basket loads over several hundred years to build the great mound. That is mindboggling! Just as I have trouble envisioning the culture that built the great pyramids of Egypt, I struggle to imagine this ancient society.

Unfortunately the people of Cahokia did not leave behind a written record. Most of what is known about their culture has been pieced together from artifacts, the journals of Spanish explorers who recorded stories told to them by the tribes they encountered, and native groups believed to be the descendants. Though Cahokia and most of the other Mississippian sites had been abandoned by the time the Spanish arrived, some of the native peoples living in the Southeast still retained many of the shared cultural practices. It is from these sources that a picture of life at Cahokia has emerged.

At its peak Cahokia had anywhere from 10,000 to 40,000 inhabitants. To put that in perspective, it was larger than London at the time and was the largest city in the United States until roughly 1800 when Philadelphia finally exceeded 40,000. Of course any population of that size needed structure and Cahokia was no different: it had a highly organized, centralized, and stratified society. There were chiefs, artisans, workmen, warriors, farmers, and traders among many other roles. It was an advanced culture with a far reach—their trade goods have been found at archaelogical sites across eastern North America. It was also a sophisticated society: Cahokians produced high quality works of art and there was even time for games.

The best known game from Cahokia is chunkey. Several Native American tribes in the Southeast were playing versions of the game at the time of European contact (and some still do). While the rules of the game differed from group to group the basic concept was that two athletes would chase after a hand-carved, donut-shaped stone and then throw their specially made chunkey sticks. When the chunkey stone came to a stop, the owner of the closest stick was declared the winner. It might sound easy but the name of the game was once translated as “running hard labor.” The whole community was involved, cheering and betting on their favorite player. The stakes in the game could be quite high, some losing players were known to commit suicide and winners have been depicted holding the loser’s detached head.

All in all it appears that it was a rich and full life led by the residents of Cahokia, which makes one wonder why they ever left. In the early 1300s, not long after the city had reached its peak, the residents of Cahokia began to leave. Cahokia entered a decline that eventually led to abandonment of the once vibrant and populous city. As with the ancient population centers of the Southwest that declined around the same time no one is entirely sure why the site was deserted. One thing is certain, the people did not just disappear, instead they dispersed across the landscape in smaller groups. With some credence various Sioux tribes consider themselves to be descendants of the builders of Cahokia.

By the time Father Jacques Marquette and Louis Jolliet arrived in 1673 the original inhabitants of Cahokia had been gone for several centuries. Living nearby was the Cahokia clan of the Illiniwek so the explorers applied their name to the area. The Illiniwek were the first of many people to take up residence at the long abandoned city. The first non-indigenous people to live in the area were French fur traders who established a small outpost along the east bank of the Mississippi River. Apparently, the site was quite overgrown which led people to assume the mounds were natural hills. They had no idea that the area was once the location of an ancient city.

It wasn’t until the late 1700s that the mounds were recognized as man-made and described as belonging to an ancient culture, but still the area’s importance was overlooked. In 1809 French Trappist monks moved into the area and settled atop one of the smaller mounds. To avoid seasonal floods they established a farm on the lower terrace of Monk’s Mound (which was later named after them). Though a wealth of archaeological information had been unearthed around the mounds the area was still farmed, leveled for a railroad, a small airport, and even a sixty home subdivision. Finally in 1925, after extensive efforts by archaeologists and organizations a small portion of the ancient city was protected by the state of Illinois. Nearby mounds continued to suffer damage until 1982 when Cahokia was chosen as a World Heritage Site by UNESCO, at which time the park began to acquire more land.

I was so fascinated by all that I had learned that I convinced Lance to visit the site and tour the grounds with me. At the time of our visit the Cahokia State Historic Site consisted of 2,200 acres which included seventy of the eighty mounds that remain (some of which were rebuilt according to specifications found in historic surveys). As we wandered the site we were amazed by the sheer size of Cahokia, and we only saw half of the main city—none of the small villages that once surrounded it. These satellite communities were scattered across the landscape, including several on the far bank of the Mississippi River. St. Louis earned its nickname of Mound City as there were once twenty mounds in the downtown area, remnants of one of Cahokia’s outliers.

The only mound in the park that visitors are allowed to climb is Monk’s Mound. As the tallest eminence in the area, it must have been an impressive sight at the center of the ancient city. It is easy to imagine it commanding the respect of all who encountered it. Lance and I welcomed the chance to gain a different perspective, so up we went. Though it was a hazy day we could see for miles. Living atop the mound the Chief could have easily monitored most aspects of life at Cahokia. Our vantage point at the top of Monk’s Mound enabled us to see across the Mississippi River to another impressive man-made monument, the Gateway Arch.

Also called the Gateway to the West, the impressive structure is the centerpiece of the Jefferson National Expansion Memorial in downtown St. Louis. Among other things the monument honors both President Jefferson, who presided over the April 30, 1803 Louisiana Purchase and the Corps of Discovery expedition that explored part of the new acquisition.

Jefferson stunned the country when he announced the huge purchase of land from France. Not only did it double the size of the U.S. but much of it was uncharted territory. Jefferson had long pushed for exploration of the land to the west and with the purchase Congress finally agreed to fund an expedition. Under the auspices of the War Department the Corps was charged with following the Missouri River in hopes of discovering the Northwest Passage. Along the journey they were to map the region as well as report on the plants, animals, geology, and indigenous peoples they encountered and assess the influence of other countries (notably England, France, Spain, and Russia).

It was a tall order but Jefferson felt his personal secretary Meriwether Lewis, a seasoned outdoorsman who had previous military experience, was up to the challenge. To help Lewis prepare for the trek Jefferson arranged for him to be tutored by experts in the fields of medicine, botany, and geology. In light of the daunting task Captain Lewis requested approval to hire a co-Captain and invited his old commanding officer, William Clark. The expedition was set quickly in motion, in August of 1803 Lewis headed west from Pittsburgh. Clark joined Lewis on the Ohio River in October and by December the Captains and several crew members had reached St. Louis. Just as the Corps was on the verge of the western frontier they met the first of many obstacles.

The Spanish governor in charge of St. Louis refused to allow the expedition access to the Missouri River. The governor denied the Corps because Spain and France had never officially recognized the 1800 French acquisition of the territory which France then sold to the U.S. Stymied, the Corps established a winter camp on the east side of the Mississippi River near the Wood River, across from the mouth of the Missouri. The Captains used their time at Camp Dubois to train their men, explore the area, and gather information from the various traders and native peoples that traveled through.

Though we have visited several sites along the Lewis and Clark Trail over the years, we definitely did not follow it in order. Our first stop along the trail was in Clarkston, Washington in September of 2006 which was just several hundred miles from the westward end of their journey. Then in July of last year we toured Fort Clatsop near the Pacific Ocean where the Corps spent a cold, wet winter before returning home. Now we finally had a chance to learn more about the beginning of the expedition. The Lewis and Clark State Historic Site in Hartford, Illinois protects the land where the Corps built Camp Dubois in December of 1803.

Though no physical evidence of their buildings remained a small camp was recreated based on sketches in Clark’s journal. There was quite a bit of information for us to absorb as we toured the museum. I found the numerous excerpts from the Captains’ journals the most interesting. It seems that precious little escaped their attention. In January of 1804 Clark wrote, “I discovered an Indian Fortification…9 moun(d)s forming a Circle two of them is about 7 foot above the leavel of the plain… I found great quantities of Earthen ware & flints—about 1/2 m. N. is a Grave on an Eminence.” Though the location isn’t entirely clear the mound cluster that Clark mentions is probably one of the outliers of ancient Cahokia.

After months of preparation and training the Corps finally received permission to proceed up the Missouri River. In March 1804 the Spanish governor presided over the Ceremony of Three Flags—the Spanish flag was lowered, and the French flag was raised, then it too was lowered and the American flag was finally flown over St. Louis. The Corps had to wait two more months for the weather to improve before setting out on their historic journey.

In his journal Lewis noted that the mouth of the River Dubois (Wood River) on the eastern side of the Mississippi was the official starting point of the expedition. Though the Gateway Arch commemorating their journey is in Missouri, it is technically across the water from the official starting point. It is a fact that Illinois proudly proclaims.

One of the things we love about traveling is discovering interesting connections. Take this one for instance: remember those French Trappist Monks that the large mound at the center of ancient Cahokia is named after? One of them baptized Sacagawea’s son Jean Baptiste Charbonneau a few years after the expedition’s successful return. As you can tell the St. Louis area has a fascinating history, and I’ve yet to tell you about the later years.

Photos: View our photographs from At the Confluence, the Early Years.

Dates: We stayed in the St. Louis region from 09/13/09 to 09/26/09.

We began at the beginning, as we are wont to do, at the Mark Twain Birthplace State Historic Site in tiny Florida, Missouri. The state operates a museum and library which includes the clapboard house where Sam was born. The Clemens family had recently moved to the new town seeking a better life after it had eluded them in both Kentucky and Tennessee. Years later he explained his birth thusly, “Missouri was an unknown new state and needed attractions.”

Sam was born a bit prematurely and as a result was a sickly child. His concerned mother often tried various patent medicines and quack cures on him. In his autobiography he recounts a conversation he had with his mother, Jane, in her later years about his frailties. When he asked if she had been afraid he wouldn’t live she replied, “No, afraid you would.” Ah, so that’s where he picked up his sense of humor!

Though Sam’s father, John, was a storekeeper and elected to the county court he struggled to provide for his growing family. In 1839 the Clemens family moved to the bustling river port town of Hannibal where they hoped their fortunes would improve. After touring the informative museum and watching the short film on Sam’s life we followed the Clemens family to Hannibal.

Once in town we learned about the next stage of Sam Clemens’s life by touring the Mark Twain Boyhood Home and Museum. Unfortunately, the move to Hannibal did not improve the financial situation of the Clemens family and in 1841 they were forced to sell their last remaining slave. Though a well-respected man, John’s ventures as a storekeeper, farmer, and lawyer had all failed. Even though he was poor, Sam’s childhood years were similar to other boys’: there was school, chores, daring adventures and naughty misdeeds. With one major difference: life in Hannibal revolved around the Mississippi, specifically boat traffic on the river.

The town was once an important stopping point and though steamboats were a common sight, the entire population would turn out to meet them (in 1847 over a 1,000 steamboats landed in Hannibal). Life on the muddy water fascinated young Sam and his friends, he later wrote, “When I was a boy, there was but one permanent ambition among my comrades in our village on the west bank of the Mississippi River. That was to be a steamboatman.”

Sam’s life of rough and tumble play changed after his father died in 1847. Jane struggled to keep the family together but in 1848 she had to apprentice twelve-year-old Sam to the printer of the Hannibal Courier. No longer was he free to attend school and tramp around with his friends. Nor would he spend any more summers on his uncle’s farm listening to the slave, Uncle Dan’l, tell fascinating stories. Instead, as the “printer’s devil” Sam spent long days in the printshop, working in order to earn his room and board. Perhaps it was a stroke of luck, as Sam learned first-hand the power of the written word. He often took it upon himself to fill the empty corners of the paper with silly stories and overheard bits of conversation.

In 1853, at the age of eighteen, Sam left Hannibal and headed east eventually reaching New York where he worked for a short time as a printer. That was the same year that his mother moved the family to Iowa, and it was the last time any of the Clemens family would live in Hannibal. Not satisfied with his job Sam headed back west with a few dollars in his pocket. Looking for adventure Sam hopped aboard a steamboat headed for New Orleans. Along the way he was struck by the urge to work on a boat. Not only would it fulfill a childhood dream but the salary was fantastic, a pilot in those days made a substantial sum, roughly equivalent to $150,000 annually in today’s dollars.

Sam begged, pleaded and cajoled Horace Bixby, a skilled steamboat pilot, into teaching him the Mississippi from New Orleans to St. Louis. It was a daunting task with over 1,300 miles of constantly changing river to navigate (this was before the channel was marked or cleared of hazards). Though he was often overwhelmed Sam stuck with it and finally earned his pilot’s license in 1859. Living on the river afforded Sam a sense of accomplishment but it was also the source of one of his deepest regrets. In 1858 Sam had arranged for his younger brother Henry to come work with him on the steamboat Pennsylvania. Shortly before the boat left port Sam was sent to crew another boat since he and the pilot had exchanged fisticuffs. Sam’s new assignment was a few days downriver when he received the news that the Pennsylvania’s boilers had exploded, sinking the ship near Memphis. Sam reached Memphis a week before Henry died from severely scalded lungs and skin.

Sam states that he would have been content to live his life on the river but fate intervened, in 1861 the Civil War ended boat traffic on the Mississippi. Out of a job Sam joined his older brother on a trip to Nevada where Orion had been appointed secretary to the territorial governor. Looking for a way to make money Sam tried his hand at silver mining but he failed to strike it rich. Instead he began working for a local newspaper, Virginia City’s Territorial Enterprise. In 1863 Sam published his first article using the pen name Mark Twain, a holdover from his river years. It was a term meaning two fathoms (twelve feet) which was considered a safe depth for a steamboat.

Though he wasn’t immediately famous Sam had found his calling. In 1865 Mark Twain hopped onto the national stage with the publication of The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County. It was a story he had gleaned from his trip west with his brother in 1861 and for years his writings were based on his travels. In the 1870s, after settling down in Hartford, Connecticut with his wife Olivia, Sam turned to his roots for inspiration in his writing.

Published in 1876 The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, a novel woven out of his childhood memories, was an instant success. Other books soon followed but it wasn’t until Sam again revisited the days of his youth that the author reached the top of his craft. In 1884 Adventures of Huckleberry Finn hit the shelves. The book, which was liberally sprinkled with local dialects, humor, and social commentary, was eventually hailed as the first Great American Novel. Though never really humble the author’s acclaim apparently did not go to Sam’s head; in his notebook he wryly wrote, “My books are water: those of great geniuses are wine. Everybody drinks water.”

In his novels Sam changed his hometown of Hannibal into the fictional town of St. Petersburg. Hannibal has embraced its starring role, as evidenced by the town slogan, “The Stories Started Here.” Many of the locations mentioned in the classic books such as the jail, the cave, the island, and Sam’s home have been marked with interpretive signs. The Clemens family home and other related buildings, such as the home of Laura Hawkins who was the basis for Becky Thatcher and a replica of Tom Blankenship’s house, the boy who Sam modeled Huck Finn after, have been preserved. Sam pulled many other characters from his memory; Tom Sawyer’s Aunt Polly was based on his own mother, Jim was influenced by Uncle Dan’l—the slave owned by a relative—and as for that scamp Tom Sawyer, he was Sam’s likeness in many ways.

Touring the buildings and exhibits we learned about other aspects of Sam’s life, not just his Missouri years. The life of Sam Clemens seemed to be full of adventure and travel yet it was often filled with sadness: his only son died in infancy, he lost all his money on bad investments and was forced to file bankruptcy, and he lived through the deaths of his beloved wife and two of his three daughters. Though prone to depression in his later years, Sam managed to retain some of his youthful demeanor and wit.

Sam died of a heart attack in 1910. His exit from this world was marked by Halley’s comet streaking across the sky, just as his entrance had been. During the previous year Sam had commented,

I came in with Halley’s Comet in 1835. It is coming again next year, and I expect to go out with it. It will be the greatest disappointment of my life if I don’t go out with Halley’s Comet. The Almighty has said, no doubt: “Now here are these two unaccountable freaks; they came in together, they must go out together.”

We whiled away the rest of the afternoon aboard the Mark Twain riverboat on the Mighty Miss. In between pointing out local landmarks, such as Jackson’s Island, our pilot regaled us with Twainisms and hard-to-believe stories. He also mentioned that our boat was built in 1964 by the Dubuque Boat and Boiler Works. Talk about coincidence, we just learned about that boatyard the week before when we were in Dubuque.

Out on the water it was impossible to imagine the hustle and bustle of river traffic that Sam Clemens grew up with, we were the only boat within sight. Nor was it easy to imagine the navigational challenges pilots faced back then; these days the water is deeper due to the twenty-nine locks and dams on its upper stretch, the channel is well marked and free of snags and debris. The only thing that we could relate to was Sam’s description of Hannibal, “the white town drowsing in the sunshine of a summer morning…[and] the great Mississippi, the majestic, the magnificent Mississippi rolling its mile-wide tide along, shining in the sun…”

We finished our day with Mark Twain Himself, a one-man stage show put on by Richard Garey. We were entranced: it very well could have been the real man up there, telling tall tales and poking fun at human nature. In his unique way Sam Clemens took stories from his life, mixed them with painfully true observations and patently absurd exaggerations and captured the world’s attention. We cannot think of the Mississippi without thinking of Mark Twain, nor would we want to.

Photos: View the photographs from our visit to Mark Twain Country.

Dates: We visited Florida and Hannibal, Missouri on 09/18/09.

We spent our afternoon exploring the remnants left behind by a group of long-ago people. We toured the north unit of Effigy Mounds National Monument where we walked among the amazing hand-sculpted piles of dirt. Around 2,500 years ago members of what archaeologists call the Woodland culture began heaping baskets-full of earth over their burials, creating conical mounds. Through time the design and purpose of the mounds changed, conical mounds were connected into long compound ones, linear mounds, and even animal shapes were built. Though some mounds continued to be used for burial, most were used for other purposes.

By the time the Woodland culture disseminated, some time around 1200 AD, thousands of mounds dotted the landscape of the Mississippi Valley. Though mound building had ceased, the area was still inhabited, this time by a culture group that archaeologists call the Oneota. Whether they were descendants of the moundbuilders or recent immigrants is uncertain, for they left no written record. By the time of European contact in the late 1600s the Oneota had either split into, or been replaced by, several separate yet linguistically connected tribes such as the Dakota, Ho-Chunk, Otoe and Ioway. Of course, it is from the latter group that the state derives its name. Interestingly, the only tribal group that remains in the state is not one of the aforementioned but one that was pushed from the east by the U.S. government.

I’ll finish that thought in a minute but first a quick bit of history: in 1673 the French were the first Europeans to claim the area that is now Iowa, in 1783 they ceded the land to Spain who did very little with it, the Spanish signed it over to Napoleon Bonaparte in 1800 and in 1803 Iowa became part of the United States through the Louisiana Purchase. A few years later the U.S. attempted to assert its rule over the land only to be thwarted by the local tribes who sided with the British, their longtime trading partners. After the War of 1812 the American government took firm control and signed multiple treaties with the various tribes. The idea, though they did not comprehend it at the time, was that the native people had sold their land and would need to move west of the Mississippi River once settlers arrived.

In the 1830s Americans flooded into the area and it became time for the tribes to relocate. Many of the native people were shocked by the provisions of the treaties; they protested them as invalid. Most of the Sauk or Meskwakie people, who at the time lived in present-day Illinois, packed up their belongings and moved across the river to avoid an unwinnable war. A group of roughly 1,500 men, women, and children chose to stay. They were led by the warrior Black Hawk who had proved his battle skills while fighting alongside the British during the War of 1812.

The Black Hawk War, the only one in U.S. history named after an individual, lasted just four months. By August of 1832 it was over, the U.S. military had won and in retaliation the government demanded that all native people move even further west into Indian Territory. No Indians were allowed to remain in what is present day Iowa. Two decades later a small group of Meskwakie moved back into Iowa and surprisingly, they were allowed to stay. Thus the state’s only Native American settlement is not that of one of its original populations.

Since Iowa was no longer considered Indian Territory, it too was open for settlement. Things progressed quickly for Iowa, the tallgrass prairie soil was incredibly fertile and perfect for agriculture while the Mississippi River was an excellent transportation route, just as the native people had known for thousands of years. In 1838 Iowa became a territory and by 1846 it was a full-fledged member of the Union. American settlers chose the same great places to live that the ancient people had and for many of the same reasons: access to water, good soil, tall trees, and plenty of game. In the process of clearing and plowing the land (once John Deere invented a plow that could handle the thick prairie sod) Iowans destroyed thousands of the mounds that the earlier inhabitants had so carefully crafted.

In the late 1800s a survey mapped over 10,000 mounds in the state, by the time Effigy Mounds National Monument was created in 1949 less than 1,000 of Iowa’s mounds remained. Of the Monument’s 206 mounds (the biggest grouping in the country), thirty one of them are effigies: twenty four bears and seven birds—the animal shapes are distinctive. Mounds have been discovered in almost every state east of the Mississippi, but – excepting two effigy mounds in Ohio – only this area of Iowa (and sections of neighboring Minnesota, Wisconsin and Illinois) are known to have effigy mounds. The creation of these mounds was no mean feat, they average three feet tall, forty feet wide, and eighty feet long.

Some of the settlers who streamed into the state were members of the Society of Friends, or Quakers. They established small villages in this new frontier based on their shared principles of peace, equality, and simplicity. West Branch was one of these communities and there on August 10th of 1874 Herbert Clark Hoover was born. As we wandered through his birth cottage—preserved as part of the Herbert Hoover National Historic Site—it was hard to imagine a family of five living there. Hoover’s childhood was disrupted after his parents died within a few years of each other which made him an orphan at the age of ten. Different relatives took in Hoover and his two siblings, eventually Hoover was sent to live with an uncle in Oregon.

In 1891 Hoover enrolled in Stanford University where he was a less-than-stellar student though he quickly proved his merit. Since Hoover didn’t make the baseball team as he had hoped, he became its manager. After a game in 1894 Hoover discovered that someone had failed to pay so he confronted the person, word has it that Benjamin Harrison (yes, that Harrison, former President of the United States) promptly paid his quarter. A year later Hoover graduated with his geology degree. His first job in the field was less than enjoyable, he hauled ore out of a mine by hand for very poor wages.

Hoover was not easily discouraged, perhaps there is something to the “Iowa Stubborn” label that Iowans use to describe themselves. Hoover grew a beard, bought a new suit and presented himself to a British mining company who was hiring “a man of at least thirty-five with a lifetime of experience”—he was twenty-three at the time. Hoover landed the job and with hard work and his exceptional organizational skills he soon shot to the top of the company. Hoover’s mining career met with much success, he was a millionaire by the time he was forty.

Life took a dramatic turn for Hoover in 1914 with the outbreak of war. Over a hundred thousand Americans were living in Europe at the time and had no way to return home. Hoover stepped in, arranging ship transport and lending money. Then he turned his prodigious skills to feeding the Belgians who were under siege. In recognition of Hoover’s hard work President Wilson named him head of the U.S. Food Administration. Thus began Hoover’s long career as a public servant.

Later President Harding selected Hoover as his Secretary of Commerce, a fairly new and poorly defined position. Hoover attacked the job with great energy, and he set about organizing and standardizing a variety of industries. Soon milk bottles, nuts, bolts, auto parts, and lumber all across the country were manufactured to the same dimensions. Roads? Radios? Construction sites? Dams? Corn fields? Hoover was there, clearing out inefficiencies, improving safety, and increasing profits—the press described him as “the Secretary of Commerce… and Under-Secretary of Everything Else.”

In 1927 the Mississippi River Valley experienced the most destructive flood in U.S. history. Over 27,000 square miles were under at least thirty feet of water. Residents in seven states were displaced: over 700,000 were homeless and hungry and 246 people died. Hoover led the relief effort and by the end of the year everyone across the country had not only heard of him but most admired him. For the first time in his life, Hoover ran for elected office, and in 1928 he became the thirty-first President of the United States. His Presidency was not nearly as successful as his previous ventures—less than a year into his term the stock market crashed.

The market crash coupled with a severe drought sent the country into the Great Depression. As President, Hoover set in motion some policies to help, but the suffering of the American people turned to anger. Needless to say, he did not get reelected, though some of Hoover’s plans were continued as part of President Franklin Delano Roosevelt’s New Deal programs. A tidbit that we discovered as we toured his Presidential Library and Museum: Hoover never took his Presidential salary, he either gave it back to the Treasury or donated it to charity. Hoover’s Presidential record was stained but he retains two distinctions; he was the first President born west of the Mississippi River and the only one thus far from the state of Iowa.

During our time along the eastern edge of Iowa we were forced to revise some of our perceptions of the Hawkeye State. Although over 60% of the state is covered in fields it isn’t just corn fields and pig farms, agriculture amounts to less than half of Iowa’s economy. Though Iowa is squarely in the Corn Belt of America’s Heartland we wouldn’t have known it since we were tucked amongst rolling hills along the Mississippi riverfront. In keeping with the theme of our trip we focused most of our forays along the river (with a few exceptions, like our visit to West Branch).

After all it was the river that was pivotal in the early days, Des Moines may be the capital and the state’s largest city but the port town of Dubuque is the oldest. While there we visited the National Mississippi River Museum and Aquarium which celebrates the river’s magnificence while also warning about its capacity for destruction (as evidenced by the Great Floods of 1927 and 1993). Fittingly, the museum is located on the edge of Ice Harbor in the building that once housed the acclaimed Dubuque Boat and Boiler Works.

We might as well end our Iowa story with a few things we picked up from an exhibit created by Iowans. They have an odd sense of humor! I-O-W-A stands for “Idiots Out Walking Around” (their words, not ours). An old-time saying was, “Mush is rough, mush is tough, thank the lord, we’ve got enough.” These days it’s more like this, “I hate to break it to you buddy, but my tractor is worth more than your Porsche.” And then there’s that trait they affectionately call “Iowa Stubborn.” All silliness aside, our Iowa experience was a pleasant one.

Photos: View the photographs from our Eastern Iowa Explorations.

Dates: We stayed in Iowa from 09/08/09 to 09/13/09.

That required that we head over to Minnesota, the Land of 10,000 Lakes (technically, the state has a whopping 11,842 lakes). Unfortunately, we won’t be able to brag that we’ve done the entire 1,250 miles of the Upper since we didn’t have time to visit the headwaters up at Lake Itasca. Our time with the Great River began in Minneapolis/St. Paul which seemed fitting in a way since St. Paul used to be the northernmost navigable spot on the river.

We’ve crossed over it many times during our travels yet we are still blown away by the river’s sheer magnitude; at 2,320 miles long it is the second longest in the country (behind the Missouri) and it has the third largest drainage area in the world—water from thirty one states and two Canadian provinces flow into it. Not only that but the Big River transports a mind-boggling amount of goods. From Minnesota farms the river carries over five million tons of corn, wheat, and soybeans down to New Orleans every year and that’s just some of the products from one state!

The river’s name is the anglicized form of misi-ziibi which means “Great River” in the Ojibwe language. The river valley has a long human history, evidence of occupation extends back at least 8,000 years. Native peoples used the river for transport and its fertile flood plains for farming just as explorers, settlers, and modern residents did and continue to do. In the early 1600s French fur traders moved into the Upper Mississippi region and cultivated relationships with the local inhabitants. Father Louis Hennepin accompanied La Salle down the Mississippi in 1679 on an exploratory mapping trip commissioned by the king of France. Among many other accomplishments he named the only falls on the entire river after St. Anthony (which is now surrounded by Minneapolis and known as Minnehaha Falls).

Over a century passed during which the Mississippi flowed in relative obscurity. In 1783 under the second Treaty of Paris (which wrapped up loose ends at the end of the American Revolution) land east of the river became part of the United States. Twenty years later land west of the Great River was added—the result of the Louisiana Purchase—and still Americans neglected the river. In 1805 the government sent Zebulon Pike west and he negotiated with local tribes for land where the Minnesota River empties into the Mississippi. “Minnesota,” by the way, comes from the Dakota term which described the cloudiness of the water in the river.

After the War of 1812 ended in 1815 the U.S. government suddenly recognized that it needed to assert its power in the northern Mississippi region. Construction of Fort Snelling began in 1819 at the confluence of the Minnesota and Mississippi Rivers. It was the northernmost Army outpost and its mission was twofold: to control access to both rivers and win the loyalty of the native peoples. For a decade things were rather quiet on the northwestern frontier, the nearby Ojibwe and Dakotas were relatively peaceful, so the soldiers tended to farming, logging, and running their grist mill and sawmill which were powered by St. Anthony Falls. As we learned during our tour of the restored fort, it was considered the most miserable of assignments since it was so remote and the winters were harsh.

In the 1830s two things occurred at the fort that later led to two separate military actions (though the fort was never attacked). An officer named John Emerson was posted at Fort Snelling and he brought with him his personal affects, including his slave Dred Scott. Per the Missouri Compromise slavery was illegal at the fort which was in Wisconsin Territory, so Scott sued for his freedom. Ultimately, the Supreme Court decided against Scott and the outcry was one of several events that propelled this country into the Civil War. The other event was the arrival of settlers. The fort was located in what the U.S. government recognized as Indian Territory and was therefore not open to settlement, but they came anyway. The resulting tensions eventually led to the deadly Dakota War.

One of those squatters was the ambitious and incorrigible Pierre Parrant. In 1838 Parrant, who everyone called Pig’s Eye, settled on a piece of land across the river from the fort and opened a tavern with his own special home brew. As his was the first residence and (a popular) business the spot quickly became known as Pig’s Eye Landing. In 1841 Lucien Galtier, a Catholic priest, arrived and immediately changed the small settlement’s name to St. Paul, good thing since it evolved into the state capital. Couldn’t you just see it, Pigs Eye Landing: the capital of Minnesota.

Settlers in the region found fertile soils, thick forests, and rich mineral deposits—St. Paul did not remain small for long. Minnesota became a territory in 1849 and was admitted to the union as the thirty-second state in 1856. In honor of its abundant resources the state motto is L’Etoile du Nord, the “Star of the North.” Though it is the twelfth largest state in land area, almost sixty percent of its residents live in the Twin Cities area (Minneapolis/St. Paul).

We drove up the Great River Road to explore the Twin Cities from our RV park near Red Wing. The weather was sunny and warm but the crush of summer crowds was over so it was easy for us to navigate our way around. We started the morning with a tour of the State Capitol building before heading over to the Mississippi National River and Recreation Visitor Center. It was there that we learned more about the twenty nine locks and dams on the Upper Mississippi. Congress authorized their construction in the 1930s to improve commercial navigation since the northern part of the river had such a high elevation change. Completed by 1940, the system, which lifts boats 404 feet, opened up points further north of St. Paul to barges. Transportation by barge remains important for their ability to move a massive amount of goods: a standard barge which runs 200’ long and 35’ wide can hold 1,500 tons!That’s the equivalent of sixty semi-trailers. Legally, a towboat can push fifteen barges at a time on the Upper Mississippi: that’s the equivalent of 900 semi-trailers!

While there we picked up a copy of Mark Twain’s Life on the Mississippi which relates his experiences on the Big Muddy. His tongue-in-cheek descriptions are hysterical! In his day steamers ruled the river and though the boats are larger now I think it would still be amazing to travel the river. Our friends Tori and Lori took a boat trip down the river a few years back which we were envious of then but even more so now. For this trip though, we will experience the river from land.

As I mentioned earlier our home for the week was at an RV park near Red Wing. The name Red Wing was taken from the translation of Chief Hupahuduta’s name, “swan’s wing dyed red.” The town historically was renowned for its namesake pottery and shoe company. Both industries still operate there today though the pottery companies have only recently reopened. I popped into the Red Wing Shoe Company factory store in downtown not so much to shop but to marvel at yet another WLO (World’s Largest Object): a sixteen-foot-tall workboot! Made from eighty cowhides and with a 104’ long shoelace the boot was made in 2005 to celebrate the company’s 100th anniversary. Once again I was flabbergasted…

Currently the area’s notoriety comes from controversies surrounding the Prairie Island Nuclear Power Plant. Which we didn’t know anything about when we made our reservations. Until our arrival we had no idea that we would be camping within a mile of it. I rather think that is information one should have, don’t you? Don’t get me wrong—I’m not against them per se, just prefer to know what I’m getting myself into. During our stay the community-wide alarm siren went off, thankfully it was just a test. Though honestly, we were in such close proximity that in case of a meltdown the alarm wouldn’t have done us one damn bit of good—it just would have been the last sound we ever heard. Cheery thought, eh?

I took one day during the week to explore on my own since Lance was tied to his desk. I crossed back over to Wisconsin and followed the Mississippi south. The river along that stretch is a wide and lazy thing called Lake Pepin, the natural result of the large amounts of silt deposited by the Chippewa River. I was headed to the small community of Pepin to visit the birthplace of Laura Ingalls Wilder. In 1867 she was born in a small log cabin out in the forest about seven miles from the town. This area became the basis of Little House in the Big Woods, the first book of her famous Little House series which I devoured as a small girl.

The area looks nothing like when she lived there, the forests have been cut down and corn fields now stretch as far as the eye can see. In her later years Laura wrote:

Many changes have made living…easier. But the real things haven’t changed. It is still best to be honest and truthful; to make the most of what we have; to be happy with simple pleasures and to be cheerful and have courage when things go wrong.

Sounds like good advice to me!

“Spoonbridge and Cherry” sculpture, Minneapolis, Minnesota

Photos: View our photographs from Our Upper Mississippi Introduction.

Dates: We stayed in Minnesota from 08/30/09 to 09/06/09.

From our home base in a small county run campground we took in a few highlights near Madison and even zipped over to Milwaukee. Of course, the number one item on our to-do list: buy cheese curds! They are a regional delicacy, and if you are ever in Wisconsin you should try them. Best thing about them (besides being a form of cheese, I mean) is that they squeak when you chew them. Evenings we roamed the trails at the park and played a round of disc golf on their very challenging, but well designed, course.

The weekend brought with it more free time and it was difficult to narrow down our choices. Ultimately we decided to start with a trip to the International Crane Foundation in tiny Baraboo. We had learned about ICF and its work during our excursion to see endangered Whooping Cranes at Aransas National Wildlife Refuge so we were eager to see the foundation’s work in person.

ICF is the result of George Archibald and Ron Sauey’s fascination with, and concern for, the tall birds. What began in 1973 as a small operation with a dozen cranes on a horse farm is now the leading resource for information on all the world’s species of cranes. The men couldn’t have started their work at a better time—thirteen of the fifteen species are listed as either threatened or endangered. Here in North America our two species, the Sandhill and the Whooper were at record low numbers; in the 1930s there were roughly thirty Sandhills in Wisconsin and in the 1940s there were only twenty-one Whoopers on the entire continent.

Cranes on the other four continents were also suffering population declines (and some still are). Through research, conservation and breeding programs by ICF and many other agencies around the world most of the species are slowly recovering. During our tour of the facility we viewed all but one of the species (the beautiful Blue Cranes weren’t visible as they had recently moved into a new exhibit). It was uplifting to learn more about the stunning birds and the success of the ongoing conservation work.

Our guide also mentioned another local conservation story, Aldo Leopold. Our original plan when we left our RV that morning had been to tour a cheese factory after visiting ICF—after all Wisconsin is famous for cheese, producing more cheese (in variety and quantity) than any other state. We didn’t even have to discuss it, we both knew that our next stop would be Leopold’s.

Born in Iowa in 1887 Leopold came to the state to teach at the University of Wisconsin in Madison in 1933 after a diverse career working for the US Forest Service. While at the University he undertook an ambitious restoration project out at his ‘farm’ and compiled the lessons he learned from his years of work in the natural world into what quickly became the conservationists’ bible: A Sand County Almanac.

As we wandered through the restored prairie and woods on Leopold’s property it was hard for us to imagine it as it was when he bought it in 1935: worn out and abandoned farmland. With determination Leopold and his family cleaned out and renovated an abandoned chicken shack, where they lived during summers and on weekends. Every year Leopold and his family headed out to the old farm for planting; instead of crops, native trees and grasses. It wasn’t easy work, yet there was plenty of time for participation in and observation of their environment along the Wisconsin River. As we stood there in the shade of Leopold’s trees, watching the birds wading in the shallows of the river, we were grateful for his work. Though Leopold never saw his influential book in print—he died in 1948 while fighting a brush fire on a neighbor’s property—I think he would be pleased with its impact.

From the farm we made our way south to the Wollersheim Winery in Prairie du Sac. The winery came to our attention since it was established in the 1840s by none other than Agoston Haraszthy, the “Father of California Viticulture.” Agoston had recently immigrated from Hungary when he arrived in western Wisconsin. A resourceful and ambitious man he set to work at once: founding a town (now Sauk City), opening a store, running a ferry, building a brickyard, farming and planting a vineyard. Though Agoston was off to a running start, the Wisconsin winters devastated his vines so he followed many others to California during the Gold Rush years.

Once in San Diego Agoston never pursued mining, instead he opened businesses and hopped into politics. The latter moved him to San Francisco where he was again thwarted at grape growing by the weather. In 1856 Agoston purchased a small, hillside vineyard near Sonoma which he named Buena Vista. Finally, Agoston had the right ingredients—third time’s a charm. His landholdings, vineyards, wineries and reputation grew. Though phylloxera wiped out his vines and bankrupted him Agoston’s impact on California’s wine industry was undeniable. And that winery he started? Buena Vista Carneros has a slightly different name but it remains California’s oldest commercial winery.

As for the winery he left behind in Wisconsin, it continued under the ownership of the Peter Kehl family. It remained in operation for two generations but in 1900 the winery became a farm and the cellars were no longer used to age wine. In 1972 the property changed hands again and the Wollersheim family set about making wine. Currently the winery has twenty-five acres under production, growing primarily French-American hybrids such as Marechal Foch which can tolerate cold weather.

Our tour took us through the historic sections of the property and ended in the brand new addition, a large sales and tasting area. Overall neither of us were that impressed with their wines and we weren’t thrilled with the fact that the winery imports grapes from other states, notably Washington for some of its bigger-bodied wines. We did purchase a couple bottles that were quite unique: a light, fruity and slightly sweet Dry Riesling and a spiced wine made by Cedar Creek (another winery that the family owns).

The following day dawned cool and drizzly—some of our plans were thrown right out the window but we still headed over to Milwaukee. Historians agree that the name originated from one of the local tribal languages though they disagree on which one. If it came from the Algonquian language it means “beautiful land,” if it came from Ojibwe then it means “gathering place by the water.” Both translations make sense to me, the first one is figuratively true while the second one is more literal since Milwaukee was founded on the shore of Lake Michigan where three rivers meet (Menomonee, Kinnickinnic, and Milwaukee). Besides the waterfront and its importance as a manufacturing and shipping hub Milwaukee had one other great early industry: beer.

Founded in 1818 by French-Canadian Solomon Juneau the town underwent a huge growth spurt in the 1840s as German immigrants flooded in. In 1856, the year after Frederick Miller established his brewing company there were close to thirty breweries in the city, most of them owned by Germans. Miller, who had been a royal brewmaster in the castle town of Sigmaringen, brought over his own secret yeast which he used at his Plank-Road Brewery. By 1918 Miller Brewing was producing 500,000 barrels of beer a year, helping Milwaukee become the world leader in beer brewing (along with Schlitz, Pabst, and Blatz).

During our tour of what has now grown into Miller Valley, a complex of seventy-six buildings covering eight-two acres, we learned they now produce 500,000 cases of beer a day—just at this one brewery! Though family owned until the late 1960s Miller Brewing is now part of a multi-national conglomerate that operates breweries around the world including several in the U.S. The brewery wowed us with its size and immense capacity; it is one of the city’s main employers with over 2,200 workers. And during the course of our tour we learned a few things: forty percent of the brewery’s production is shipped straight to Chicago which outdrinks five states in Miller beer and all of the spent grain is used for cattle feed. Don’t worry, the grain contains no alcohol, Wisconsin cows are not drunkards.

We had a pleasant stay in Wisconsin, though it dropped down into the 30s one of the nights—brr! We weren’t there long enough to fully convert Lance into a Cheesehead but don’t worry, I’ll keep working on it.

Photos: View the photographs from Wisconsin.

Dates: We stayed in from Wisconsin from 08/24/09 to 08/30/09.

It was some mighty desolate country we were wandering through; the only abode for miles—a brightly painted house—caught our eyes. It was plopped in the Painted Desert, which is undeniably scenic, but oh, so lonely. Shortly thereafter we left Arizona and crossed over the New Mexico state line. It may sound silly but we always feel a sense of accomplishment when we enter a different state.

The rest of our day was spent driving up and down the long hills that I-40 traverses. I had been dreading that stretch of road, but thankfully it wasn’t as bad as I remembered. Finally we climbed our last hill and leveled out; we had reached the Llano Estacado, one of the largest mesas in the United States. The region’s Spanish name was given by none other than Coronado who traveled through in 1541. The steep cliffs that edge the mesa must have reminded Coronado of a fortress for the name translates as Palisaded Plains.

Crossing into Texas we left behind the small shrubs and scrubby junipers that had dotted the terrain; now there were none. Where the landscape wasn’t punctuated by farms or ranches it was sparsely vegetated with low-growing grass. As we looked around the only noticeable vertical relief was man-made. Though at first glance one might not think it possible, the Llano Estacado supports a surprising amount of agriculture, primarily through ground water pumping.

Finally we pulled into an RV park on the outskirts of Amarillo, our home for the next week. Though we’d both driven through neither of us had ever spent any time in the Texas Panhandle and we looked forward to learning a bit more about the area. Amarillo is the largest city in the Panhandle and it has a few claims to fame: it calls itself the Helium Capital of the World, historic Route 66 runs through town, the quirky Cadillac Ranch is a roadside attraction, and it is home to the reigning United League Baseball Champions, the Amarillo Dillas.

Oh, and here’s a bit more crucial information: Amarillo is the third windiest spot in the country. It is perched on the western edge of Tornado Alley, and between 1950 and 1994 Texas had more tornadoes than any other state in the nation. Looking back, we should have known something was up since we drove past warning and road closure signs on the side of I-40. It also should have clicked when the clerk at the check-in desk of the RV park pointed out that their conveniently located restrooms also served as storm shelters.

But no we didn’t worry about the weather until the first gust of wind smacked the side of our RV, moving it much farther than we felt comfortable with. Quickly, we gathered up our valuables and prepared the cats for evacuation. Hoping to minimize the damage we pulled in our slide and battened down the hatches, as they say. Then we tuned our portable radio to the weather channel. Last time we spent a night like that was in Memphis when a tornado missed us by a few miles. Thankfully, the brunt of this storm—65-mph winds and baseball-sized hail—passed by to the east of us (poor New Mexico).

By morning all traces of the the storm were gone, it was a bright and sunny day. Our workday passed quickly as we each had quite a bit to do and the park, which was mostly empty, was quiet. As I perused a local tourist brochure I became intrigued by a nearby art installation called Cadillac Ranch. That evening I talked Lance into checking it out with me. Poor guy, I am insatiably curious and am always dragging him off on some “adventure.” Our friend Rich shares my passion for the interesting and unusual and he has often gotten lost while searching for WLOs (World’s Largest Objects). His very tolerant wife Karen has some hilarious stories of their excursions.

Cadillac Ranch is an art installation on the edge of town comprised of ten old Caddies placed head-first in the ground. It purports to pay homage to the car’s classic tail fins and America’s love of the open road. I guess that makes sense, especially the latter since it is in a field just south of where historic Route 66 used to run. In reality it was quite odd. There was no sign pointing to the site and no admission fee, there were just a bunch of spray painted cars stuck in a row in the dirt. Still, we walked through the dusty field for a look.

When new, the cars were true beauties; now after 35 years as “art” where public participation in the form of spray paint is not only allowed but encouraged the cars are much less striking. We hadn’t come prepared with our own can of paint but a thoughtful prior visitor had left behind a half-full can and even extra disposable gloves. We left our mark, soon to be covered by someone else’s. Upon closer inspection Lance and I determined that the layers and layers of caked on paint were the only things holding some of the Caddies together. As we left we passed a group who asked us if it was any good. Our answer? Worth the price of admission.

Cadillac Ranch was paid for by local eccentric millionaire Stanley Marsh 3 (he prefers to use the number over the Roman numerals, which he insists are pompous) whose family made their money off oil and helium. Marsh has sponsored several other random art projects, all of which have been called eyesores. To which Marsh replied, “Art is a legalized form of insanity, and I do it very well.” So there.

Leaving Cadillac Ranch we spotted a billboard advertising one of our favorite Texas restaurants: Rudy’s “Country Store” and Bar-B-Q. My Aunt Coralie is responsible for getting us addicted to their special brisket and Sissy Sause back in 2006. It was a no-brainer, we didn’t even have to discuss it, dinner that night was at Rudy’s. I don’t know how they do what they do to their brisket but I could eat it every day, it is so mouthwatering!

Thursday, our last night in Amarillo, came quickly and we decided to do as other Amarilloans do: attend an Amarillo Dillas baseball game. After all it is summertime and what is hot weather without baseball? As I mentioned above the Dillas are the reigning champions of their league, so the game promised to be interesting; plus it was Thirsty Thursday. We took our seats in the Dilla Villa (as they call their stadium) and between watching the game and the people we enjoyed ourselves immensely. It helped that they broke up a tie game in the bottom of the ninth for the win over the Laredo Broncos. Good times, good times!

Friday morning we were up early, preparing for our long weekend on the road. We needed to reach Ohio by Sunday which was roughly 1,100 miles from Amarillo. So we figured we’d just drive as far as we could tolerate the first two days so that Sunday we would arrive in time to get all set up for the coming work week. As we drove through town on our way east we couldn’t help but sing the song originally recorded by Terry Stafford, “Amarillo by Mornin’.” Oh sure, that was about getting to Amarillo not leaving it but we thought it was appropriate, besides it’s just a great little song. “Amarillo by Mornin’, Amarillo’s on my mind…”

Photos: View our pictures from Amarillo, Texas.

Dates: We stayed in Amarillo, Texas from 07/19/09 to 07/24/09.